Saturday night fever

He rose from being Radio 1's youngest ever DJ to be the BBC's light-entertainment heavyweight. But after more than two decades of wacky woollies, Gotchas! and Blobbymania, he fell out with Auntie - and split up with his wife. Now, though, he's back, with another TV hit on his hands - and a new love in his life. Noel Edmonds tells Rachel Cooke that it's all thanks to his cosmic wishlist

Saturday night fever

He rose from being Radio 1's youngest ever DJ to be the BBC's light-entertainment heavyweight. But after more than two decades of wacky woollies, Gotchas! and Blobbymania, he fell out with Auntie - and split up with his wife. Now, though, he's back, with another TV hit on his hands - and a new love in his life. Noel Edmonds tells Rachel Cooke that it's all thanks to his cosmic wishlist

Saturday 28 January 2006 19.40 EST
First published on Saturday 28 January 2006 19.40 EST

Please be nice to me,' says Noel Edmonds, with a faux cringe when we first meet in his cushion-stuffed hotel near Chippenham, Wiltshire. And I do try, honestly. I give him the benefit of the doubt in spite of the flicked hair and the obsessive beard; the David Brent-style non-funny jokes that supposedly signal his 'crazy' sense of humour; the slightly prickly way he takes even the mildest ribbing as criticism. When things get really bad, I picture a scene from Swap Shop, a tinkling red phone, on the end of which is a small girl who is desperate to swap Kerplunk for an intact Mousetrap game - a childhood fantasy that is really very comforting. But he will push his luck. After he announces - in a voice that brooks no argument - that Top Gear, a programme he once presented, is 'the finest light entertainment show the BBC has ever produced', something in me goes 'twang'. Time, I think, to sharpen my pencil to a devastating point.

Edmonds spends a lot of time in this chintzy palace because it is close to Bristol where he films his new daytime show for Channel 4, Deal or No Deal. He shoots three shows a day for two weeks, then he has a week off - a hectic schedule, but one which he seems to relish. It's a hit, you see, and when a show's a hit, no one ever feels tired. It recently pulled in 4m viewers, a figure that by far exceeds the station's expectations (when it launched last autumn, Channel 4 was quite content with an audience of around 1.5m); as a result, he is - as David Brent might say - absolutely pumping. 'I was nervous. Channel 4 needed this show to be a hit. Richard [Whiteley, the presenter of Countdown] dying, Richard and Judy being beaten by Paul O'Grady ... I was in no doubt: we needed a high-performing show. Now it's mad. Absolutely mad.' So he's quite competitive, then? 'Just slightly,' he squeaks, through gritted teeth.

Edmonds loves talking about Deal or No Deal; he regards it neither as a quiz show (lucky this, since it involves no questions) nor a game show. So what is it, exactly? To listen to him, it might as well be Shakespeare: the highs, the lows, the passage-clearing catharsis. Personally, I don't get it at all. The basic format originated in Europe, and has since been sold to 40 countries. Contestants must win money by guessing in which box (there are 22) the biggest sums of cash are hidden; it is a game of luck, and seems to involve no skill whatsoever. It's a mystery to me how he ensures that each game lasts a whole, hammy half-hour. He looks at me as if I am a bit simple.

'Thank you for telling me that,' Edmonds says. 'It's pure luck as to what is in the box, obviously. The skill lies in how you present, because the banker watches you. He's trying to work out how much of a gambler you are.'

Ah, yes: the banker. At periodic intervals on their way to winning a possible £250,000, contestants are offered a sum of money by a banker. If they believe they can still win more than this offer, they say 'No deal', and continue opening boxes. If they worry that they can't, that they might go home with only, say, 50p, lots of boxes containing big sums having already been opened, they 'deal'. But the contestants never actually speak to the banker. An old-fashioned black telephone rings, which Edmonds answers. He then chats to 'the banker', while the contestant and studio audience listen in rapt attention. Needless to say, he adores this bit of the show. He has, he says, found his inner actor. But better still is the moment when he must help an anxious contestant make a decision. Those who gamble make for much better television. Then again, he feels responsible. He would hate for someone who could probably really do with their winnings to leave - either through greed, fear or excitement - with a pitifully small cheque.

'My role is to make sure that people do not become seduced by the game,' he says. 'One of the expressions I use is: "Play the money, don't play the game." The danger is that we all get seduced into the emotion of it. We had a girl on the other day, Vanessa. She was going to get £500 or £20,000. The burden we felt was that there were her kiddie photos [as a mascot]. I read out a poem from her seven-year-old.' When Vanessa got lucky, three of the other players (potential contestants stand behind boxes, waiting for their turn in the chair) burst into tears. 'And two of them were men! And I'm looking at the audience, and they're looking like you [I am grimacing, though possibly not for the reason he thinks].'

I ask Edmonds to tell me about the other day, when a bloke gambled a little too enthusiastically, and went home with 1p. 'He's in an exclusive club of one,' he says, delightedly. 'The 1p club. He's the president. For the AGM, he can meet not only in the phone box, but in the shower cubicle, too. Ha ha!'

Edmonds is famously a rather small man, though it is his proportions rather than his height that really intrigue: tiny, girlish bottom; dapper waist; gracious head covered in all that hair, now more ash than sunshine blond (though I presume that both it, and his closely trimmed beard are dyed; he has certainly admitted to this in the past, and he is, after all, 57). He is ageing disturbingly well. His manner is chummy, but only up to a point.

Self-analysis is not really his thing; ditto self-deprecation. As for jokes, he does those, thanks - and only rarely are they about himself (and even when they are, they're edged with regard). He is a great one for reminding you about his career: its length (30 years with the BBC); its breadth (from Top of the Pops to House Party via Multi-Coloured Swap Shop and Telly Addicts); and, of course, its brilliance. 'Please take this the right way,' he says at one point. 'I didn't find Saturday night television difficult.' His disdain for earpieces and autocues is chillingly absolute.

It is six years now since his Saturday night behemoth, Noel's House Party, was axed (at its zenith, House Party attracted 17m viewers - but after the show descended into 'madcap' chaos, ratings fell away, and Edmonds was paid £1.8m not to work by the then BBC1 controller, Peter Salmon). Since then, he has not graced our screens, concentrating instead on his business interests (he is very rich, possibly worth as much as £20m). He has always claimed that he did not miss television at all, that offers came in but he turned them down. But the Daily Mail prefers to portray him as a Norma Desmond figure, still waiting for his close-up. The Mail has also taken a healthy interest in the break-up of his 19-year marriage to Helen, the mother of his four daughters. It reported merrily that she had run off with her Pilates instructor; that she and Noel had divided their 36-room Devon house in two; and that Noel was dating a French-based estate agent, Marjan Simmons. When he was photographed with Marjan, the Mail implied that it was him who tipped off the paparazzi.

All lies, says Edmonds, who is now suing. Yes, he and Helen separated - he does not say why - but they did not build some kind of marital Berlin Wall in their house; they sold it. And yes, he and Marjan - his 'lady' - are an item. But he was not involved in the break-up of her marriage, nor did he tip off the press. 'They've gone too far. They accused me of stealing someone else's wife. That's a complete slur. Certain things go beyond being in the public eye.' Does he find it upsetting? 'Too right, I do. I'm too thin-skinned for this job.' Still, he does have a schizophrenic attitude to publicity. The Daily Express ran a more positive piece about him - though not, to my eyes, much more positive - and he wrote to Richard Desmond, the paper's owner, to thank him. He tells me that Desmond disapproves of the Mail's knocking, giving no hint that he grasps that the two papers are rivals.

Anyway, in the years he was off air, he farmed his estate and, later, came to terms with the end of his marriage. By all accounts, he found this very difficult; even he refers to it as a 'challenge' (though things are civilised - he and Helen spent Christmas together with their daughters, playing board games). After the marital home was sold, he bought a house in the south of France, and it was there that he met Marjan. Do not, however, make the mistake of saying that he has abandoned this country. When the Sunday People reported that he had 'quit' Britain, they ended up paying substantial damages (he keeps a house in Devon, so as to be near his girls, who are aged from 21 to six). But while he may not have hankered after TV, I notice that he still auditioned for the job as presenter of Countdown (Des Lynam got it). Then Deal or No Deal came up. He turned it down at first; only after a Channel 4 charm offensive did he sign on the line.

You might have thought that what we are definitely not allowed to call the wilderness years would have had an impact on the way he sees TV: one minute, Alan Yentob is telling you how crucial your show is; the next, you're being paid to sit at home. But, while you can see signs of bruising - his excessive good cheer at the success of Deal or No Deal speaks volumes in this respect - Edmonds remains someone who appears to be fairly unfamiliar with doubt. House Party didn't fail because it became a national irritant; it had more to do with the fact that the BBC was in a parlous state thanks to Edmonds's number-one hate figure, the former director general, John Birt.

'A man came along who had no feel for the creative side, the accountants took over. It was horrific, and there was a migration of talent.' So what does he think of Saturday night telly now? It seems to me that, with its reliance on ballroom dancing and talent contests, it has revitalised itself by looking to the past. 'You mean that it has higher production values.' He doesn't expand on this, which seems odd, until he tells me that he doesn't watch television. But how on earth can he make television if he doesn't watch it? 'I've got a gadget called an off button,' he says, sarcastically. 'I use it. At Christmas, we did without The Great God Television.'

Edmonds, an only child, grew up in Essex. His parents were teachers who somehow managed to send him to Brentwood school, where he fell in love with radio: 'I knew the schedules of every pirate radio station.' His hero was Kenny Everett. Were his parents disappointed when he decided not to go to university, and become a DJ instead? 'It was a tense time. It wasn't clogs and second-hand clothes, but they gave up a lot. I don't think my dad could see a career in it.'

When he joined Radio 1 in 1969, he was billed as the station's youngest DJ; he began as a jingle-maker, earning £7 a week, and ended up as the breakfast show host, on £35 a programme. 'And you could do a disco for £300,' he says, eyes lighting up. So, cruising around in his cheesecloth shirt, loon pants and Cuban heels, did he take advantage of his status as almost pop star? He looks at me in total bemusement. 'I got married in 1971 [to Gill Slater, a physiotherapist - it lasted 11 years], so I can't help you with the party stories. Though I do remember driving out of Television Centre with a girl on the roof. I couldn't get rid of her.'

He quickly moved into television - an early gig was doing Come Dancing, though the producer of the show turned a little pale when Edmonds arrived at the Coventry Locarno in a fur coat and with shoulder-length hair - and still has only the fondest memories of the programme for which he is still best remembered: Multi-Coloured Swap Shop, on which children would ring in and attempt to exchange old toys with each other. 'Did you phone?' he asks.

Er, no: I wanted to, but my parents were a bit disapproving of Saturday morning TV. 'As long as you're not telling me you preferred Tiswas!'

What sticks in my mind from this period was the knitwear he favoured. Did he buy it himself?

'You don't become a fashion icon without having your own very clear view of what is fashion.'

But it was crazy. Where did he get it?

'They're called shops ... Though you didn't go to Man at C&A because then the viewers would say: "I've got one of those."'

We compare his Swap Shop knitwear with his Telly Addicts knitwear. The former, I say, had a certain anarchic vibrancy. This gets a big laugh. But the latter was more... alpine cosy. The laugh dwindles to a low mutter.

The other thing - person? - with which he will also always be associated is a pink rubbery creature that appeared on House Party and later had a hit single: Mr Blobby. (At one point, Edmonds also licensed several Blobby theme parks, some of which were significant failures for their owners.) I have bad news about Blobby: he is to make a comeback. 'Kids that loved Blobby have now got kids of their own. He's an attractive character. We've had an approach to do an animation.' I groan. 'Now you're being personal. Everyone conveniently forgets that Blobby was a character on a Gotcha! [Gotchas! were practical jokes played on unsuspecting celebrities.] That's why he will be popular again. He wasn't created in a Disneyesque way; there is a natural popularity there. The budget for a Gotcha! was £30,000. That's more than they spend on most shows today.'

It is now time for us to head off to Bristol. Edmonds is to drive us there in his dove-grey Aston Martin. Unfortunately, his publicist is with us, and she is pregnant, which means I must fold myself into a back seat that has been designed only for the transportation of elves and Scottish kelpies. I tell him that he should drive slowly, so as not to break my neck. I will sue him if this happens. His response? He accelerates the car faster than the speed of light. I wimper; he laughs. Crazy old Noel, eh? Luckily, he does it only once, and while we are still on the hotel drive. But even at 40mph, I'm uncomfortable.

The Endemol studio is in an old paint factory, and not terribly glamorous. But no sooner are we out of the car than Edmonds comes alive. A studio audience has formed a polite queue outside. 'What are you waiting for?' he roars. Everyone laughs. In his dressing room, he greets every comer - be they producer or make-up artist - with the same ecstatic bonhomie. On the wall is a series of lines marked off as five-bar gates - the kind of lines a prisoner might draw in his cell. What are those? I say. 'Oh, that's just my little joke.' He adds three more lines, representing the three shows he will film today. Truth be told, I am starting to warm to him now. His keenness, and the fact that he won't change his trousers in front of me, are oddly touching. Edmonds is wealthy; he has a long and successful career behind him. Yet he is putting so much into this strange afternoon show. Either his desire to prove a point to what he persists in calling 'Auntie' is stronger than I thought or he needs all this far more than he is willing to let on.

I watch him do a show. It is pretty much like watching it at home because Edmonds never fluffs a line, not even when he is walking backwards. He looks to be enjoying himself. The audience and contestants grin and gurn in all the right places. Afterwards, I go back to his dressing room, and it is here that we have a moment of revelation. Buoyed up by a slug of TV adrenalin and a healthy coating of orange foundation, he is suddenly less coy about the strength of his still-burning ambition. Not so long ago, he tells me, he went to a reflexologist, and she gave him a book about something called cosmic ordering. The idea behind 'cosmic ordering' is, apparently, that you write down your 'orders' on a piece of paper, and then the 'cosmos' kindly delivers them. Edmonds has put in six orders so far, and the cosmos has not let him down once. Perhaps you can guess the first of these. 'I said I wanted a hit show; it had to be something my girls would watch; and I wanted it by October.' A dramatic pause. 'I got the call about Deal or No Deal in August.' I am speechless - though I bet I can guess what the next order will be; in fact, he's probably put it in already. Could it involve the words 'primetime', 'Saturday' and 'BBC'? Yikes!

I thank Noel for his time, wish him luck and dash off. Two can play at this game. If I hurry, there might just be enough time for me to do a bit of cosmic ordering of my own.